


Roaring Water

by bo0hoo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Voldemort Wins, Angst, Death Eater Draco Malfoy, Eventual Smut, F/M, Love, Past Sexual Assault
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-12
Packaged: 2021-03-19 02:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29992485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bo0hoo/pseuds/bo0hoo
Summary: Hermione Granger is dead, lost to the rubble of the Battle of Hogwarts – at least until Lucius Malfoy finds her shackled in a cave two years later.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Lucius Malfoy/Narcissa Black Malfoy
Comments: 13
Kudos: 52





	1. Hermione Granger

It was twelve.

They always played chess at noon.

“That’s the fifth time Lou has beat Miss this week!” exclaimed the house-elf sitting across from Hermione Granger. “Lou hopes she has not upset Miss?” her voice drifted with uncertainty, but the young witch gave the creature a kind, genuine smile, and she waved a reassuring hand.

“Oh, you’ve done nothing wrong,” Hermione began re-arranging the chess pieces, so they were set up again. Eight pawns. Rook, knight, bishop, king, queen, bishop, knight, rook. Sixteen pieces for herself and another sixteen for Lou. “How many times is that now?” asked Hermione as she set up Lou’s side.

“Four hundred and thirty-eight, Miss,” Lou beamed. Nothing got her as excited as chess, and Muggle chess was ten-times as thrilling (though Hermione still didn’t know why). The witch smiled as she pulled her hands back. A perfect and pristine picture. Her heart ached when she took in the set. It had been four hundred and thirty-eight games, and her beating organ gave a pang without fail every time she regarded the thirty-two pieces. Ron.

Ron.

Ron.

Ron.

“Let’s start again, then?” Hermione motioned for Lou to move her first white piece forward. Hermione lost that match again, but she didn’t care. They played another game, and Lou announced as they manually reset the board that she had won four hundred and forty-one. As Hermione scooted back in the chair, the elf went to the kitchens to prepare lunch for the house's lone inhabitant. As Hermione shifted back in her chair, there was a tapping noise at the window.

Beyond the glass pane, speckled with sea-spray and rain, was an owl. Sleek and black, it knocked on the window with a sharp talon as it waited for Hermione to retrieve the letter. She tossed it a snack from the small bowl on the ledge, and the bird perched on the window sill as it chewed.

It was addressed to her, the script familiar enough for Hermione to know who it was from, even without a return name.

_One month._

It was all she needed. The two had learned to communicate vaguely to be confusing to those who may intercept their messages, but they always understood. Lucius wouldn’t return to the island for another month, and she would be left researching by herself. He always helped her, brought her books and letters and journals of his findings while abroad. Hermione frowned, sending the owl off without a response. He would understand, she thought as she shut the window. The fewer, the better.

A storm was beginning to brew, atypical for the time of year. From her usual spot in the house library, she overlooked the bay. She could see specks of land in the distance, made fuzzy by the faraway clouds. She let out a sigh, her eyes dragging to the silver watch fastened on her left wrist. She had about fifteen minutes until lunch.

3:12, now.

Hermione found her study table in the back. It overlooked the water, and part of the mainland as visible, though it was in no way close. The island was relatively isolated, smaller, and further away from the primary clusters of islands that made up the bay. Hermione was generally thankful for it, but she was becoming exhausted from the lack of socialization. Guilt quickly flashed through her; it wasn’t as if she was the only one ripped away from her family. In her first weeks here, Hermione had pestered Lucius with questions, including ones about Lou. She was the child of a pair of house-elves at the Manor and serviced to the island.

Besides Lou, Hermione knew she was fortunate. She had been saved, cared for, and safe. Others weren’t as lucky.

She slid into the cushioned seat, her papers piled in front of her. She had been stalled in her research, the isolation and unending boredom so relentless that she couldn’t even focus. A book lay open before her, but Hermione slid a slip of lone paper between the pages as she shut it. Perhaps she could go for a walk. Maybe she would even invite Lou, though the house-elf routinely declined each time she was asked.

But the intimidating piles of books and paper were too demanding for a relaxed lunch, so Hermione decided that she would eat in the small dining room that opened up to the veranda before returning for a leisurely read. The house was so different from what she imagined the Malfoy’s to own. It was small (at least compared to what Hermione assumed the Malfoy’s were accustomed to), cozy. A home, almost, despite the ruins on which it was built; there was still a sense of abandonment hanging in the air, clinging to the tabletops and picture frames. The furniture was draped with white dust sheets when she arrived. When Hermione pulled them off, she was surprised to be greeted by soft, plush couches and worn surfaces.

The informal dining room was just off the sitting room, with a small round table with matching dark-wood chairs. Hermione often found herself sitting there for meals, as the formal dining room was too grand, too official, and stripped of any personality. Lou found her quickly, holding a steaming bowl of soup and tea service. “Lou brings food to Miss!” exclaimed the small elf as she approached the table. “Lou knows Miss likes tea, so Lou brought some too.”

Hermione gave a genuine smile, her eyes brightening as Lou carefully set down the trays. “Thank you, Lou,” Hermione said before the house-elf Disapparated with a _snap_. Hermione ate quietly, watching the gathering clouds above the house. She could see the rain tumbling in the compressed air, the tension so thick Hermione wondered if she would even have time for a walk. She had been on the island long enough to know that the winds were strong enough to knock her off her feet. Then she would read, probably continue the book sitting vacant in her bedroom—the third one on that floor.

Five bedrooms, seven bathrooms. There were twenty rooms in total. An attic, a cellar, the parlor, the two dining rooms, a sitting room, and the library. There was another room, too, beyond a closed door that didn’t open despite Hermione’s various tries. She had discovered it was the study, accessible only to Lucius and Narcissa. Not even Lou could get past the wards, and Hermione had long given up on any attempts of getting through.

Upon arrival, Hermione was impressed by the exterior's gothic nature, but Lucius had informed her that the old castle had been repaired, and a veil was placed over the island. The castle was by no means grand (then again, nothing was as grandiose as Hogwarts), but it was large and roomy. There was even a small garden in the back that Hermione had planted seedlings in preparation for spring. Planted them the Muggle way, too. Magic didn’t satisfy her in the way it used to.

She set her napkin on the empty porcelain and watched it vanish. Another glance out the window only confirmed her suspicions. The rain had already begun to fall, trickling down the thin panes and weighing down the tree branches. The rain made her bones ache, grinding and pressing against each other. She reached into the pocket of her cardigan, withdrawing a small vial of a silver-green liquid. Upon uncorking, the potion smelled of grass and vinegar. Hermione downed it in a single gulp.

It would take several moments for the potion to settle into her bones. As Hermione descended the steps, she massaged at her sore arm.

The stairs were sleek, polished wood. The wallpaper added over the stone walls was a light brown, which hung old family portraits and paintings of the landscape. Hermione’s room was at the end of the hallway of the stairs. There was something homey about it, so utterly un-Malfoy that it caught her off-guard upon the discovery of the island’s owner. There was a four-post bed, fit with a pastel yellow quilt with embroidered pink flowers. Peeled away from the windows were cream drapes held by brass rods. There were bookshelves, too, packed tight with books from both wizard _and_ Muggle authors.

A tall armoire tucked into the back corner, beside which was a mounted mirror that was framed with that same brass as the curtain rods and doorknobs. Hermione tugged open the doors, pulling out a pair of denims and a thick sweater. She might as well _feel_ productive; her mother had taught her that she could boost her productivity by dressing up. It was why Hermione always wore her robes on Hogwarts’ Sundays, on which she meticulously did her studies hidden away in the library. She could at least attempt to replicate the feeling, and so she had delved into the armoire to discovered clothes upon clothes that fit her perfectly; though, some of them were far more _girly_ than what she usually preferred.

Then again, Hermione felt she wasn’t in a position to complain, so she wore the frilly summer dresses on the warmer days, the pretty blouses and skirts when she missed dressing up. When Lucius came, Hermione made it a point to look nice. But today, a simple jumper and pair of denims would do, and Hermione made it to the library with the book from her nightstand tucked into her side. She might ask Lou for hot cocoa, which she found comforting these days.

Hermione frowned as she took the flight up to the third floor, which held only the library where Hermione found herself spending most of her time. She had a love-hate relationship now, she thought. It was her only way of passing the time, but she could become so immersed in her studies that it became a chore. Hogwarts Hermione would have laughed at the notion, but it was true. Cooped up on the island, with no company save for a house-elf (who Hermione adored, don’t get her wrong), was changing her.

But Hermione researched and researched, and by the time she would look up after her noon sessions with Lou, the sun had moved several feet across the floor, and her temples would be aching to the point that the house-elf would have to procure a special tea to soothe Hermione before sleep could even consider approaching.

Hermione pushed open the wood door, old and creaking on the old hinges, and made for the small nook where she always did her personal readings. It was better to separate her workspace from her personal.

Hermione snorted as she sank into the armchair. She _definitely_ would have laughed at that when she was younger. The storm was brewing, the clouds growing dark enough that the sun was entirely concealed by the thick grey-black veil. The sea crashed against the rocky outcrop, spraying water into the air mixed with the heavy raindrops. In the distance, lightning flashed, thunder rolling so profoundly that it vibrated in her bones. She grimaced, reaching for the wand in her trousers to cast a silencing charm over the room. The storm fell silent, the only sound of her unsteady breathing and the scratch of fingertips on paper.

”Lou,” she whispered, and a _pop_ echoed through the room. The house-elf appearance, eyes wide and a smile pulling at her lips as she waiting for her miss’ older. “Can you get me a hot cocoa, please?”

“Of course, Miss!” she beamed, small wrinkled hands wringing together. Lou Disapparated, leaving Hermione struggling to concentrate on her book. It must have been two in the afternoon, but the sky was so dark it looked to be night.

One month. One month without Lucius for company, despite how cold or distant he could be. One month without information that wasn’t the forwarded copies of the _Prophet_ and occasional foreign works. Hermione vividly remembered her first meeting without the Malfoy lord, his fallen coldness as he entered her bedroom. With her knees pulled to her chest, her fingers gripping each other so hard her knuckles went white, she was lulled into a distant memory.

* * *

_Hermione only slept during the day. She couldn’t stand the light, too harsh and burning for her weakened eyes. It was midnight, her midday, and she had been huddled in the confines of her room. At that point, the house was too big for her. The months spent trapped in dark and small spaces had accustomed her to night and pressing walls. She had nobody to speak to but Lou, the quiet house-elf that Hermione knew belonged to the island’s master – whoever that was._

_Even then, Hermione requested that she be left alone. She barely managed to wander the hallway outside her door to find the bathroom. It was too wide, too large, and too inviting to strangers to occupy the seemingly empty house. She held a book in her hands, though Hermione hadn’t turned past the first page. Lou had kindly informed the Granger girl that there was a library, but Hermione didn’t want to leave her room yet. She just found a book off the shelf – on the magical history of Ireland – and kept it clutched between her fingers, still dirtied as Hermione couldn’t yet bring herself to take a bath._

_The crack of Apparation had startled her enough to make her jump, and Hermione had pressed back in her seat with her eyes fastened on the door of her bedroom. Somebody had arrived. She was no longer alone. Was it Lou’s master, the one who had brought Hermione to the island that night three weeks prior? Hermione never got the chance to discover his identity. She had been unconscious, deposited onto what was now her bed before she was able to find her rescuer’s face. Her hero? Maybe (and more likely) her damnation._

_Lou found Hermione, head bowed and voice tentative as it always was in those early days. She had requested that Hermione change, put on something more presentable than the calf-length navy dressing gown. But Hermione shook her head, said something about refusing to see him, and hurried further back in her chair. It took Lou another trip to her master to convince Hermione to change. It was the first time she had worn something other than her that dressing gowns._

_Hermione never wore the new dress again after that day and buried it behind the other clothes in the armoire. It was seemingly innocent, with its white lace and skirt that brushed her knees. The type of thing she would have worn to weddings or Sunday services. A mockery was what it was. She didn’t feel innocent. In the dark, the streaks of dirt on her hands looked like blood. There were nights when Hermione was roused from her nightmares that she couldn’t differentiate between soil or gore, and she clawed at her exposed skin until crimson shone through in the dim light and Lou tipped a Dreamless Sleep potion down her throat._

_The blood was constant. Had always been. The stinging of her knees when her father taught her how to ride a bike; the stains on her fingertips when she cleaned the cuts on Harry’s face after Quidditch matches. Or in her third year, when she had punched Draco Malfoy in the nose and split her knuckles. Or during the Horcrux hunts, when they had been running from Snatchers and caught one-too-many hexes to the face._

_At some point, her fingers found their way to her forearm, where she knew a scar lay. She tried to avoid short-sleeves, so she didn’t have to see it. She picked at it far too much to compensate for the lack of visibility, and the scabs had never peeled away. They opened every few days when she clawed at the sharp edges in her sleep or the midst of a panic attack when her bedroom felt a bit too big._

_But Hermione refused to leave her room and instead situated herself at the small tea table beside the window. He would join her here. It was her only way of feeling like she had some control, despite her racing heart and trembling limbs._

_She must have been there for ten minutes before the door creaked open, and a figure emerged from the warmly-lit hallway. He was cast in shadow, standing in just the right spot that she couldn’t comprehensively analyze his familiar features. “Hermione Granger,” said Lucius Malfoy, he seemed absurdly tall; he had to duck his head to clear the doorway. He rose to his full height, eyes narrowed as he took in her appearance._

_Hermione just stared. What was Lucius Malfoy doing here? She reeled back, fingers digging into the spine of the book in her lap. Realistically, he couldn’t be the owner of such a beautiful island. He was far too cruel, too stiff, and toffee-nosed to reside in a place so homely. But Lou had insisted that only her master would be allowed into the island, and Lou indeed was kind, the house too house-like to belong to the sorts of Lucius fucking Malfoy._

_He didn’t shut the door; instead, he let his hand linger on the rustic brass doorknob. His brows furrowed, seeing the drawn curtains and rumpled bedsheets and the skeletal girl sitting before him. “I trust that Lou has been taking care of you?” the lamp on her nightstand finally cast enough light on Malfoy for Hermione to properly take him in. The years had not been kind to him. The lines on his face deepened, the longer whiteish-blonde of his hair now laced with bright silver that hadn’t been there four years before. His under-eyes were smudged with a faint purple, lips pale and devoid of color as if he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. Then again, nobody truly slept well anymore. But still, Lucius Malfoy always carried that cruel aristocratic beauty that Hermione figured each Malfoy possessed._

_He finally took a step forward, sleek leather boots thumping on the warm hardwoods. He noted the tension that rippled through Hermione, the way she stiffened as he moved towards her and froze. It probably was his robes, fine black robes with the silver brooch at his breast, right over his heart, with the Dark Mark. In the shadows, if it weren’t for his hair, he would have been unidentifiable._

_Breath. In–one, two, three, four–out._

_Again._

_Again._

_Again._

_Lucius tried again to move, and when Hermione didn’t react, he took a few steps forward to lower himself to the small trunk to the right of the armoire, still a fair few paces from the witch. “You must have questions,” he began, eyes cautious. “I’ll answer any you have.”_

_But Hermione, no matter how damaged_ _she felt, wasn’t stupid. She fought the urge to narrow her eyes, instead choosing to silently reinforce the walls in her mind, carefully hiding any emotions she might have physically expressed. Occlumency, she vaguely recalled the name. It helped with hiding thoughts, too, and memories. She crossed her legs at the ankle, tucking them beneath the chair._

 _She began running through her questions. The most obvious one, at least to a girl like Hermione Granger: Where was Ron? But she quickly chided herself. No, she had to be more rational. Start broad, narrow down to the finer points before she could even consider asking those questions. But what if this whole thing was a ruse? Get Potter’s Mudblood comfortable, convince her to reveal her secrets. It wasn’t unreasonable, given that the man before her was_ Lucius Malfoy. _If she asked those questions, she’d ask them later._

_So she shoved Ron to the back of her mind, shutting his book and tucking it into her bookshelf. First off, Hermione didn’t even know what day it was. She supposed she could ask Lou, but that felt too personal, as if she admitted her fault. She fisted her hands in her lap – she had to put her pride aside, at least when she was finally offered the answers she had craved. Her tongue wetted her lips, and her eyes dragged up to Malfoy on the trunk. “The–“ her voice caught, and her mouth set into a frown. She hadn’t used her voice, not properly, in ages. She figured the neglect permanently damaged her vocal cords from screaming, and she resisted the urge to touch her throat with cold fingers. She cleared her throat, swallowed, and tried again. “The date?”_

_He had the decency not to laugh. “The twenty-ninth of August,” he paused, eyes narrowing. “The year is 2000.”_

_A new century, she frowned. She supposed she had been naïve at Hogwarts to hope they would turn the century with Voldemort dead, their jobs at the Ministry firmly secured. She could have still been with Ron, maybe have their flat in London, with Crookshanks, if he was still alive. They would have been twenty, freshly adults, to face a new world with the war behind them._

_Malfoy waited for her to gather her thoughts, then watched as she searched her mind for a new question. “The…war?”_

_His lip twitched as he leaned back against the wall, crossing his legs. His feet practically touched the end of her bed with just how long his limbs were. “Practically finished,” he scoffed, but Hermione could tell Lucius didn’t mean the diluted amusement for her. “But if you have the patience for an in-depth answer, I suppose I have the time.”_

_“The short version.”_

_She wasn’t sure if she could even handle the whole truth._

_He bit at the inside of his cheek, and a contemplative look passed over his features as he shifted back. The trunk creaked with the weight, but he paid it no mind. “After the Battle of Hogwarts, which your Order lost, the Dark Lord infiltrated the Ministry and took over fully. Whatever scraps of power he had managed to grab onto before, he now had total control over England. Scrimgeour is officially the Minister of Magic, but anybody that has a brain knows that the Dark Lord is the one pulling strings.”_

_Malfoy cast her a wary look, an expression unfamiliar on the sharp lines of his face. When he saw no exhaustion or stress rippling Hermione’s features, he continued. “There are Anti-Apparation Lines all around England, and only a few high-ranking officials have free reign, like me,” his neutral aristocratic mask dropped as arrogance took its place, but it faded as soon as it appeared. “After the Battle of the Ministry, your Potter boy disappeared. The Dark Lord says he’s dead, but he’s not–“_

_“Harry’s alive?” the words escaped her mouth before she could reign them in._

_“I said he’s missing but dead all the same to the Truth,” he grimaced. “You, on the other hand, are a different story.”_

_Fear shot through her heart, buzzing in her veins and clouding her mind._ Breathe, Hermione. _She swallowed, checking her mental walls before motioning for him to continue. “You’ve been dead since the Battle of Hogwarts. A blissful fate in this day and age.”_

_Her heart stilled. Dead._

_Did she have a tombstone somewhere? Maybe next to her grandmother in Trent Park? But she shook the idea from her head when she remembered that her parents were likely also dead or still hidden in the suburbs of Australia. She hoped they were still there, unaware of their daughter’s existence. With a suppressed scowl, Hermione slammed_ that _book shut and tucked it in the bookshelf. An extra padlock on that one._

_“Dead?” her mind latched onto his last few words, eyes wide. “Does He know?”_

_Malfoy knows who she meant, but he shook his head. “The Dark Lord is unaware you’re even alone, let alone prisoner to his followers. You disappeared during the Battle of Hogwarts, and we all thought your body had been destroyed in some of the explosions or even lost to the lake after we discovered the Resistance knew just about as much as we did.”_

_“Then– Then who were they?” the question made her face burn with shame, but Malfoy paid it no mind._

_“Unknown to me – for now,” he quirked a brow. “But rest assured that given the atrocities committed in that cave, I will find them.”_

Atrocities. _Horror struck Hermione like a bolt of lightning. The aching between her legs, the pulsing in her core that only amplified the pain in her bones and nerve endings, seemed to increase tenfold with the words. Her toes curled in her shoes, and she was confident that any color in her cheeks had drained to a sickly pallor. The expression seemed to make Malfoy uncomfortable, and he shifted in his seat. He seemed nervous to move onto the next question, perhaps for his relief or hers. Either way, Hermione was grateful._

_With a wave of his hand, he conjured a piece of parchment. “The current Undesirables,” slowly, he extended his arm to hand the paper to her. It took her a moment to lift her hand from her lap to take it from him, and she pinched the edge as she pulled it loose from his grasp. She knew these names but was surprised at their spots on the top ten._

_1\. Kingsley Shacklebolt_

_2\. Bill Weasley_

_3\. Mad-Eye Moody_

_4\. Fleur Delacour-Weasley_

_5\. Mundugnus Fletcher_

_6\. Charlie Weasley_

_7\. Ginevra Weasley_

_8\. George Weasley_

_9\. Angelina Johnson_

_10\. Poppy Pomfrey_

_Shacklebolt’s place on the list wasn’t unfounded, given he was an ex-Auror with a high-ranking position in the Order, assuming that he still held it. But if he was Undesirable No. 1, Hermione figured it was a safe bet to make. Bill Weasley’s spot was peculiar, and Hermione figured if perhaps he had done something incredibly annoying to the Dark Lord. Ron’s place, or lack thereof, was concerning. Did it mean he was dead? Nearly all of the Weasley children held a position, even Ginny, who must have been nineteen now. Then again, Hermione had managed to work her way up the Undesirables list at an even younger age._

_She frowned when she suddenly remembered Malfoy was still in the room, and she jolted up to meet his eyes. “May I keep this?” she hoped so, but she would need to figure out if there were any curses on it, but she had already touched it, and she could count off several curses that took longer than the initial contact to take hold. With a suppressed shudder, Hermione set it on the table. Malfoy nodded and raised his hand to peer at the watch._

_“I’ll leave you to…think,” his brow raised. “If you need me, ask Lou.”_

_Hermione waited for the front door to shut before she peeled back the drapes, just enough to peer out the window. In the moonlight, Malfoy’s hair glowed white, a beacon as he moved through the front lawn towards the grove of trees on the far end of the island. He stopped almost half-way through, and with a final glance at the house, Disapparated._

* * *

Lou’s quiet voice was what woke her from her memories. The storm had only worsened beyond the windows, the slamming of rain against the glass barely muffled with Hermione’s fading concentration. She frowned, then looked from the horizon to the house-elf before her.

“Lou has brought hot cocoa for Miss,” indeed, she extended a green ceramic mug to Hermione, who took it gratefully. She was distracted, and even her polite smile felt forced as she thanked Lou. “You can go now, Lou, thank you,” the elf Disapparated, leaving Hermione once more alone.

She drained the thick drink quickly, quicker than preferred, and the cocoa was bitter on her tongue by the time the last few sips disappeared down her throat. The book in her lap, the pages dog-eared and worn from her constant worrying at the paper, seemed far enough out of reach that Hermione couldn’t fathom reading – not with her present state of mind. She supposed that the first visit with Lucius had been the beginning of their odd relationship. He came to her when he needed assistance with research or a new idea he couldn’t risk sending in with an owl. On few occasions, he Apparated on the island when he needed a break.

There had been a night, Hermione recalled, that Lucius had stormed into the living room, his arrival muffled by the storm beyond the door, hair matted with blood and eyes wild. He had confided in her that Narcissa had nearly died in a Resistance attack and that Draco had been asking far too many questions. If the man’s desperation hadn’t been so tragic, she would have laughed at the notion of _Draco Malfoy_ irritating his father to the point that he’d have to flee the Manor to a Mudblood-occupied island.

A bath, perhaps? The distraction had helped in the past. Hermione wiped the back of her lips with her jumper’s sleeve as she made down the stairs to her bedroom, where she traded her clothes for a champagne bathrobe to wear on the short commute of one door down.

As Hermione twisted the knobs to the white claw-foot tub, the spout pouring steaming water to the smooth base, a smile tugged at her lips. Her parents had always told her not to bathe or shower during storms. Lightning could hit the house, and everybody knew being in the water while electricity strikes were never good. But the magic was… _magic_ , and Hermione found herself grateful as she dipped a toe into the steaming surface. And she supposed it helped that technically, the bath wasn’t actually connecting to any pipes; instead, it was powered by magic.

The night passed slowly. Hermione finally roused from the bath when the water went cold. It had been nearly two hours by the time she stumbled into her bedroom, where she decided to keep her robe on and only throw a towel over her wet hair. She would have to manage that soon, too, but perhaps she would join Lou downstairs (or wherever she was).

The castle’s bones shook as she descended the stairs, thunder loud and rattling the ruins' frame. After all these months and her survival of several of these storms, Hermione was still quite unsettled about them. There was something so ominous about waiting out a battery on an island, with really only herself for company. In their first year, she vaguely remembered Harry sharing a story about how Hagrid rescued him off the island the Dursleys took him to when attempting to escape the horde of Hogwarts letters chasing them. She frowned as she dragged her hand off the smooth railing. It was irritating that she could barely remember such a time, even if it was ten years before.

Hermione grimaced. Ten years since she received her Hogwarts letter. She wondered what Hogwarts Hermione would think when she found out where she had ended up the following decade, trapped on an island with only herself and a house-elf for company. Probably something absurdly snooty:

“ _I_ wouldn’t allow myself to become some damsel in distress,” eleven-year-old Hermione would exclaim. “A woman doesn’t need to be rescued like some princess trapped in a tower!”

Hermione snorted, turning the corner as another clap of thunder rattled her bones. She indeed would have said that.

Now, where was that house-elf?

Each of the rooms was empty, and Hermione dreaded going to the cellar on nights like this. Perhaps she would just call out for her, she thought as she collapsed onto the plush couch. She pulled her towel out from her hair, eyes narrowed as she searched the halls for any flash of the yellow tea towel Lou wore.

“Lou–“

A crash. Hermione jolted to her feet, head swiveling on her neck as she searched for the sound. Had Lou fallen, or perhaps dropped something? She found herself running for the front, darting through the archway into the long hallway that led to the front door.

There was a figure in the house, leaning against the archway with hands braced on the walls. The front door was swung open, rain dousing the floor and pooling in the hardwood cracks. Flashes of lightning outside were the only illumination provided, and Hermione noticed that the lights were out in the corridor for the first time. She reached for her wand in her pocket, withdrawing it with trembling hands. “ _Lumos_ ,” she mumbled, arm extended towards the intruder. If a Death Eater had come for her, Hermione would not go without a fight if Lucius had betrayed her. “ _Stupefy–“_

She paused, eyes wide and mouth agape as she took in the sight before her. The spell fell short, any motivation behind the wand lost to her shock. He had been splinched, spanning from the back of his hand up to his elbow. The top layers of his skin had been peeled off, revealing intricate spirals and swirls that spanned his arm like some horrifically beautiful tattoo. His breath left his mouth in short spurs, made visible by the frozen air from the open door. His eyes rested on Hermione, and now at her side, and mouth parted in an “Oh.”

“Malfoy?”


	2. The Visitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione tends to an unexpected visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading, you lovely humans :DD

He stared at her like she was a ghost, which, she supposed she technically was. Hermione was certainly her appearance, from the hollowness of her cheeks to her overall gaunt frame, didn’t help.

Her wand fell to her side, eyes flaring wide as she stumbled back a few protective steps. Maybe she should have finished that spell, she thought as she tightened her grip on her wand. But it was something about Malfoy, about his bloody appearance and the hint of fear in his bright silver eyes that caused her to hesitate.

“Malfoy?” she breathed, the name slipping between her lips.

A groan loosened from his throat, and all at once, his legs gave out from beneath him as he fell to the floor with a _thud_. Water soaked his pants, his hair streaked red from the blood on his hands. “Fuck, Granger, help me,” was all he could manage. His forehead pressed to the wallpaper, and when he pulled back, eyes screwed shut, a smear of crimson shone on the wall.

But Hermione darted forward out of instinct to grip his shoulders before he could fall over, but as soon as her hands brushed her skin, his body went limp and he practically _fell_ into her arms, his breath silver clouds in the stifled moonlight.

* * *

They brought Draco to the upstairs bedroom that Lou informed Hermione was the boy’s. It was simple, clean and practical, with a grey quilt and thick blankets they piled atop Malfoy’s resting body. His breathing had improved, straying from the shallow spurts he could manage initially. Her eyes drifted to his arm, resting atop the heavy blankets, wrapped tight in blood-stained bandages. Neither Hermione nor Lou were experts in healing magic, and they had to do with what they had. Her eyes drifted to the empty bottle of crushed Dittany, which had been applied over the thin slices across his right forearm.

They hadn’t been able to heal everything, and only a sealing charm had prevented additional bleeding. However, if Malfoy moved too much, the cuts would reopen and they would start over. Hermione briefly considered calling Lucius, but he was away in France, and she didn’t think the splinch would warrant a visit. After all, the last splinch she had cared for was in the middle of the woods while on the run; she figured she could handle this one much better in a stocked house.

Still, she was concerned. Her fingers lingered on the bracelet clasped on her wrist, a leather band fit with a silver coin, on which was the Malfoy house crest. There was a slight buzz of magic to it, warming the skin where it contacted. She had cast a Protean charm on it to communicate with the Malfoy lord, should an incident occur that an owl would delay. Hermione had only used it once within the first three months of her stay, when she had an episode so terrible not even Lou’s potions could assist.

Hermione frowned at the thought, her fingers drifting upward to the imprint on her arm. Beneath the soft fabric of her jumper, her fingertips traced the scabbed edges of the scar. _Mudblood_ , it read, in jagged script. She had other scars now, but none were quite as painful as the one on her left forearm. It wasn’t so much about the physical pain, not when Hermione had endured much worse over the years, but instead the meaning. She hadn’t the slur, hated the label and her automatic ranking in the hierarchy. She had clawed her way to the top of her class at Hogwarts, desperate to prove herself despite her blood status.

Mudblood.

“Lou,” she murmured. The house-elf’s head perked up from over Malfoy’s limp body. “I’m going to go rest,” it was nearing ten, but the events of the day had drained her of all energy.

It was instinct that caused her to murmur some simple, yet effective wards over her room. Hermione hadn’t yet decided on what Malfoy’s presence meant, and she was too exhausted to honestly care. She figured she couldn’t always stay on her blissful island retreat, anyway.

She discarded her bathrobe, opting for a loose navy slip instead. When Hermione awoke only a few hours later, rain still incessant and deafening despite the charms in her room, her bones were painfully sore, and she fumbled for the potion in her nightstand. Her shoulders hurt the most, and her fingers pressed into the muscles once she finished the dark liquid.

The time read 6:13 by the time she managed to rise out of bed. She found a pair of tight denims and a woolen olive jumper before finding the bathroom. Her hair was a mess, curls tangled and frizzed due to her lack of care the night prior. She tugged absentmindedly at one of the thick coffee curls as she reached for her wand, beginning the process of smoothing and detangling the coils.

The witch had discovered of the years several spells to help manage her hair. When she forgot a protective hairstyle, or simply hadn’t cared enough to bother, a few simple spells helped loosen (or tighten) the curls. Hermione sometimes wondered if it was even _okay_ to skip the manual steps.

Growing up, her mother had taught her how to care for her hair. The right creams and oils to soothe her scalp and coils. In a way, it felt like some betrayal of her ancestry, when she cut those corners. But Hermione had never been one to care much for her appearance, and when she finally bothered to make herself feel prettier, she found she hadn’t cared much for her prior concerns. But, still, it was nice to braid them back and to work with her hands instead of a wand. When she had pulled out the tight curls a little more, returning them to the state she usually wore them in, she used a wide grey scrunchie to bind her locks back in a low ponytail.

When Hermione had finished the rest of her routine, she crossed the hall to where she knew Draco Malfoy slept. It was purely the wand at her fingers that gave her the nerve.

It must have been four years since she’s seen him. Properly seen him. The night in Malfoy Manor she could barely remember, and even the thought made her scar tingle beneath her sleeve. Whatever boyish features he had carried during his Hogwarts years had refined into something different. Cruel. Everything about him was cruel, from the sharp, angular cut of his cheekbones and jaw, to the pin-straightness of his nose. His brows carried a slight downward tilt that made his features, even resting, look harsh and ridiculing.

The bedroom was empty, the only sound the rain and the faint sounds of Malfoy’s breaths. She took a tentative step forward, eyes darting from the bandage on his arm, speckled with the occasional red stain, to his closed eyes. It was on her fourth step, a few paces away from the edge of his bed, that her foot pressed onto the creaking floorboard she forgot existed, and his eyes flew open.

* * *

She knew that in Latin, Draco meant “dragon.” But the way he moved seemed more fitting for the Greek derivative of his name: serpent. She barely saw him rise, only a flash of white as his hand wrapped around her throat and shoved her back. Pain blistered along Hermione’s spine where it connected with the wall. She let out a groan, but the noise came out in a high rasp with the increasing pressure on her throat.

Her eyes slammed shut.

_Hot, sweaty hands sliding over her skin–_

She clawed at the hand at his throat, the other now pinned above her head. When Hermione managed to open her eyes, she found him staring at her. No, that couldn’t be the right word for it. Almost, staring _through_ her. The stunning silver, at one point vibrant and practically white in the right light, seemed dull. A flat gray, like pop that lost its carbonation. She couldn’t help but close them again as whimpers spilled past her lips.

_The biting cold of shackles over her wrist, the pain in her shoulders when she thrashed against the restraints–_

She heard Lou’s arrival, signaled by the crack of Apparation, and Hermione parted her lips. “ _Draco_ ,” she managed to breathe. She was beginning to feel light-headed, her lungs screaming for air, but she scratched uselessly at his hand. “ _Draco!”_ the last attempt, on that seemed to catch his attention finally.

The grip on her throat and wrist loosened all at once, and the Malfoy heir collapsed at her feet.

“Miss! Miss!” squeaked Lou, darting forward to assist Hermione, who had slid to the ground with trembling limbs. She couldn’t move, barely breathe. She could feel her muscles tensing, stomach-churning, and head pounding. As Lou carefully placed bracing hands on Hermione’s shoulders, the Granger witch lurched to the side and heaved onto the hardwood floors.

When she finished, she wiped her lips with the back of her hand and finally focused her gaze back onto Malfoy, who lay frozen at her feet. She heard Lou clean up her vomit, but it barely registered. “He’s– his wounds have reopened,” Hermione said shakily, giving a pointed look at the blooming red spots beneath his bandages.

“But–” Lou looked torn, eyes dragging from her master to the girl she had been serving all these months. Hermione shook Lou off, managing to pull herself to her feet.

“We need to staunch the bleeding,” was all Hermione said. Her voice had flattened into a monotonous line, devoid of any emotion. Hermione hadn’t realized she had slammed her walls down tight. Better feel nothing than the heart-stopping fear that gripped her mind. Then remember those days in the cave. She swallowed, placing a now-still hand on the wall to support her body as the rose to her full height. “Lou, the Dittany,” the bottle upstairs was empty.

“R-Right, Miss,” the house-elf nodded, disappearing down to the cellars where they kept the potions. Hermione scanned the room for her discarded wand and caught sight of the dark wood beneath the bed. She pulled it out, tapping it lightly on her thigh before levitating Malfoy’s body onto the rumpled bedsheets. His breathing was shallow but not rattling, which Hermione took as a good sign. She found the Dreamless Sleep potion on the bedside and poured some down Malfoy’s throat for good measure before unwrapping the soaked bandages on his right arm.

Sure enough, the wounds had split open. Hermione washed off the blood, disinfected the cuts, and then waited for Lou to return with the vial of crushed Dittany. She didn’t have much confidence in her healing magic abilities, but she remembered the day that Ron had been splinched, his arm wounded. The Dittany had helped, yes, but Hermione realized there was an entire library the witch had access to. She would have to find a book on healing spells to help progress Malfoy’s healing rate–

She went still, eyes going wide as she examined the cuts. This was Draco Malfoy, and she was _helping_ him after he just attacked her. He had appeared with no warning in the dead of night, and Hermione was _helping_ him. The thought made her head spin. Malfoy had tormented her, hurled slurs and derogatory phrases, and bullied her to no end, yet Hermione helped him. But Lucius had promised her that she would have been left alone. The island only accessible to her and the Malfoy lord and anybody within the immediate family; however, she knew that the house was rarely used, forgotten in the list of properties buried in Gringotts records. But if Lucius had allowed Draco entry, he must have trusted him enough not to harm her. He could have reinforced the wards, ensured that nobody but the two had access, but he didn’t, and Lucius was by no means careless.

That final thought was enough to convince Hermione to take the Dittany from Lou’s hands and pressed the green leaves into the wounds. She was nervous about applying too much and instead opted to play it safe. She would use a spell for the remainder of the injury, as the Dittany only did so much. The vast majority, such as the more spirals that cut a bit deeper, struggled to heal all the way, and only when she was sure she had done what she could, did she step away.

With a quick bandaging charm, she raced upstairs to the library. She ordered the cataloging system to find her a book on healing spells and waited until a brown leather-bound book shot through the stacks and dropped onto the table before her. Hermione thumbed through the pages, skimming over the spells she knew would be useless in scenarios like this, and lowered herself into one of the armchairs by the door. It took several minutes, but Hermione finally arrived on a proper spell. She practiced the incantation several times, then made sure to double-check before hauling the thick tome downstairs to Malfoy’s bedroom.

Malfoy was still incapacitated when Hermione arrived, but a faint flush had returned to his otherwise pale skin. In place of the already-healed cuts were silver scars that traced the path of the splinch. If it hadn’t been such a gory image, Hermione figured they were beautiful and reminded her of tribal tattoos she had read about in primary school and seen in some movies. She could focus on that later if she wished but had a responsibility to heal Malfoy for the time being. With surprisingly-still hands, Hermione raised her wand over the injured area.

“ _Praeligo Vulnere_ ,” she kept her voice low, though she didn’t necessarily have a reason for it. She worked slowly, repeating the incantation with the tip of her borrowed wand as she followed the cuts. She worked for nearly half an hour, only taking breaks when her arm became too sore to continue tirelessly, and she had to re-rally her confidence. When Hermione finally finished it, silver scars stretched out over the once-exposed flesh. She wiped away any remaining blood with a damp rag and left Malfoy’s room in a hurry.

Hermione didn’t allow herself to think over the incident and how her mind had immediately gone to her time in captivity. She descended the staircase, eyes narrowed in concentration, and she hastily closed that book and placed it as far away as her mind could manage.

It was seven when Hermione entered the kitchen, the smell of toasted bread hanging in the air. “Thank you, Lou,” she smiled gratefully as she slid into a stool. “Can you check on Malfoy once you finish cleaning up?” the small house-elf nodded, clapping her hands together in front of her bright yellow tea-towel.

“Lou will check on her young master,” she grinned, then spun to finish cleaning the pots and pants before finding her way upstairs to Draco’s room. Hermione ate slowly, trying to prolong the time it would take to find her way back upstairs to the library, assuming Malfoy was still awake. She didn’t plan on getting attacked any time soon and would honestly prefer if Malfoy woke himself up with a familiar face – Lou’s – instead of an old enemy.

Hermione made her way to the third-floor tower with the taste of honey-coated toast lingering on her tongue. The door was enchanted only to allow her and Lou entry. With the new arrival of the Malfoy heir on the island, Hermione was suddenly thankful for the additional security Lucius had applied. As she shut the door behind her, the gentle smell of parchment and ink filling her nose, she took a glance out the window. The clouds were beginning to retreat, open blue sky visible in the near distance. Hermione hoped she could take a walk around the island, cushion herself in the small grove of trees in the back of the house with a book in her lap. She couldn’t help but snort. Reading was all she ever did anymore; she should try to take up something new, like a painting.

The thought drew out another laugh from her lips as she lowered herself into a wooden chair. Her research piled in front of her, Hermione peeled open one of the books she had been annotating, _Secrets of the Darkest Art_. She had read it before, once, many years ago when initially researching Horcruxes, but she was older now, more developed, and generally capable. She flipped to the page she had left off on, fingers skimming over the yellowing parchment and faded ink.

“ _Because a Horcrux is the splitting of the soul, one must deliberately commit an act of murder without remorse or regret (see Chapter 17). We can infer that Herpo the Foul’s beliefs influenced the requirements of the Horcrux ritual. In the wizarding world, it is believed that murder driven by malice is the worst act of evil one can commit, hence the Killing Curse being the worst of the Unforgivables. If we follow this path of thought, then it’s likely that Herpo believed that humans only could create a singular Horcrux, as the notion of multiple murders for the sake of immortality was inconceivable–“_

Hermione huffed, leaned back in her chair. She had read this already, and she knew that Voldemort had taken those extra steps. They predicted there were five Horcruxes, meaning five murders atop the Horcrux ritual. She grimaced, looking back down to the text. There was nothing she would get out of the book that she hadn’t discovered before, not when she was on her third read. Still, she looked back down.

“ _–Despite the unknown limit of Horcruxes, we can assume that there must be a finite number due to the fragility of the human soul. We see that performing Dark magic acts takes a physical and mental toll on the caster and can be further traced to permanently damaging the soul (see Chapter 13, Section III for further analysis). In a journal entry by Herpo the Great, he said, ‘the effects of the Horcrux, of the ritual and the act of murder, were so damaging that his physical form was altered and similar to decomposition, though not on a grand scale.’_

_“It can then be assumed that if Dark magic eats away at the soul over time with continued use, the Horcrux – which is inarguably the Darkest Art known to wizarding kind – would impact the soul at a faster rate. If these fractures were to grow more significant, for lack of a better word, these fractures would permanently damage the soul; thus, there must be a limit. For example, if I drop a cup and it chips, I still have a cup. But if the cup continues to get settled and continues to break, the cup no longer serves its purpose and is instead a broken pile of ceramic shards. Similarly, the soul is only a soul as long as it is complete and can take so many fractures before losing all traces of humanity or livelihood._

_“Additionally, humans are as physically fragile as their souls. Our magic reserves run as deep as our stamina allows it to, and it can be assumed that we would become physically drained before we reach the limit of our powers, or in this instance, our souls. Overall, the question that comes to mind is whether an individual would be willing to give up all aspects of their individuality and humanity in exchange for immortality. Individuals like Nicolas Flamel, the alchemist, credited with the creation of the Philosopher's Stone, have claimed that while longevity has its obvious positives, physical and mental strains come with it. The soul's continued division would likely leave the creator in a state of permanent dehumanization, including emotional and physical detachment from humanity. While creators of a Horcrux are most likely evil, Dark wizards, the Horcrux exploits an individual's weaknesses and hatreds and amplifies it to suit its purpose.”_

Hermione leaned back, gnawing on the inside of her cheek. Tom Riddle, as Dumbledore said, was somebody who valued power over love. Voldemort formed his relationships with others out of his necessity for power and success. He had only rarely trusted others and did so when required. Hermione’s mind wandered to Peter Pettigrew, the Death Eater she knew assisted in the revival of Voldemort. Voldemort was highly paranoid and would only ever so-completely trust another if it ensured his increase and accessibility to power.

Her eyes drifted back to the text. It was, after all, Tom’s immense power that granted him the greater capacity to divide his soul. If the book was right, which Hermione would assume it essentially was, Tom’s deep magic reserves allowed him to divide his soul as many times as he was able. She wondered if it was also his youth that played a role, though likely more minor. Herpo the Great was elderly compared to Riddle, though Hermione figured that it was primarily their difference in power that contributed to overall capability.

Or maybe Riddle was already so out of touch with his humanity that he truly paid no mind to lives lost. From what Hermione had observed, he displayed psychopathic tendencies that allowed him to feel no remorse.

She pulled her quill from the inkwell and found the parchment she had been using for her Horcrux research. She already knew five of the Horcruxes: the ring, the diary, the diadem, the locket, and the cup. She had theories for the other one, based on a page further in the book, but that was for another hour when her head didn’t ache as much as it did. She scribbled down some quick notes, highlighting the points of longevity with some hastily-scratched question marks, then the theory of Dark magic’s amplified effects in a Horcrux. It fell into line with the First Fundamental Law of Magic, anyway. She added her ideas, too, aligning them with what she already knew of Voldemort’s efforts.

When she glanced up at the clock, the time had passed eight, and the clouds had moved past the bay and into the mainland. She’d need to check on Malfoy, and as she set down her quill and began down the stairs, she gave a silent prayer that he was still asleep. When she had tiptoed down the hallway, she saw he was still unconscious and sent a thank you up to the gods before slipping into her bedroom.

She found a thicker sweater and knitted socks, then traveled downstairs where her coat and mud boots were. Even if the storm had passed, Hermione knew the area enough to predict the temperature as she tugged the front door open, the cold bit at her exposed skin. With a huff that clouded in her eyes, she started down the slight slope that led to the small trail she had found that led down to an elevated path over the water. The winds, thankfully, were reasonably still, and Hermione didn’t have to deal with the sting of the seaspray as she descended the slick path.

The island wasn’t that large, maybe a little over five acres, but it was enough space that Hermione didn’t feel so trapped. The lower part of the island, just below the grove of trees that faced the front of the house, was ten feet off the water, but at that time of day, the levels had dropped to maybe fifteen feet, and Hermione felt a bit more secure at a distance between her and the dark sea.

Burrowing her hands in the pockets of her sizeable brown jacket, curling her fingers in on one another, Hermione tread carefully. The ground was slightly slick with damp, glistening grass, and the occasional patch of mud had her slowing down to avoid a slip into the rocky water beneath her. She figured she would take her time, avoid spending any more time in the house with Malfoy than she had to, at least until she could pry some answers from Lucius – whenever he came back.

The letters she had received from him over the past weeks were vague on personal details. The fear of an owl getting intercepted had been mounting over the months, with the Dark Lord's increased paranoia brought by the rising rebellions throughout Europe. Even though Hermione was confident of the island’s security, she was still nervous about being discovered, even more so of Lucius’s identity of her keeper being revealed. She had learned that while the island belonged to the Malfoy’s, the deed was in another long-passed distant relative who hadn’t bothered to pass the property on. Instead, it remained hidden to both public and private eyes, _especially_ Gringotts, who Hermione could no longer trust. She wondered if there was a Fidelus charm on it, though that wouldn’t explain Draco’s arrival. Perhaps only the immediate family was aware, though forgetful, of its existence.

She scowled. The idea of Narcissa Malfoy joining them sounded awful, and Hermione quickly began dreading the thought that _more_ people who join her. While she still felt lonely, Hermione found comfort in the solidarity, though she sometimes craved company, most commonly on the days after Lucius departed from his infrequent visits. She never really had a moment to herself during her active days in the war. At Hogwarts, she never had a minute alone. During her hunt for Horcruxes, she was either in the constant presence of either Ron or Harry or both. And after– well, she didn’t want to think about that.

At least now she had Lou to play chess with and to rant about her current book, but also a kind companion who kept her distance unless requested. Hermione smiled to herself as she slowed to a stop, eyes drifting to the mist-covered mainland. She did have it lucky compared to all the other people who were suffering during the war.

A familiar feeling of guilt prodded at her ribs. She was fortunate, hidden away on an island. She should be helping, hunting for Ron and Harry. Do _something_ rather than curl up in her library with her only window into the war from her library. Hermione squeezed her eyes shut; she shouldn’t think like that, not after all she went through. Lucius had told her enough times, and she knew that he was right, despite her feelings. She had always been inclined to help others, and maybe it was time she did rest.

The slam of Apparation had Hermione’s eyes flying open, reeling back into the cliffside in instinct. It was Lou who stood in front of her, eyes wide and darting about with nerves.

“Miss!” she exclaimed, small hands flying into the air. “The Young Master Malfoy is awake. He sends Lou to find Hermione Granger!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Praeligo Vulnere" is a spell I made up lol, so if you were confused that's why.
> 
> Praeligo = to bind  
> Vulnere = wound
> 
> Essentially, the spell means "to bind a wound." I made this with the power of the internet, so sorry if it's a bit inaccurate LOL 
> 
> I love you all endlessly xxx
> 
> Leave me some comments, I love hearing from you!


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